


The Cheek, the Teeth

by SandrC



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Dysphoria, Bruce was not a good person, Drug Addiction, Kugrash was trying to be better, Non-Chronological, Pre-Canon, The life and times of Bruce the Rat, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, You ever think about Bruce not knowing magic was real?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-01-31 06:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21441886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: Kugrash is the Shepherd of the Homeless. He takes care of New York's unwanted and abandoned. When he met his end, it was poetic.Bruce Kugrich is an asshole who fucked over so many people in pursuit of money and power. When he finally got what was coming to him, it was poetic.They're the same person, decades apart. They're the same person, but they are not similar. They're the same person, but they're trying to not be.Sometimes you gotta get dirty to clean yourself up.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 45





	1. Company of Good Folk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Kugrash Meets the Vox Populi
> 
> (Title from Slip Away)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to a small serial connecting when Bruce was cursed to when the Unsleeping City started.
> 
> You ever wake up and think about how Bruce probably didn't know about the Unsleeping City? About how he's suddenly a rat and then also magic is real and then also there's monsters and fairies and the like?!
> 
> No? Me only? Then it's a good thing I'm writing this.
> 
> The reason I'm doing this non-chronologically is because I'm writing Bruce as an extremely unlikable and actually garbage human being and, if I'm being honest, several chapters of that bullshit just to get to halfway decent Kugrash is not ideal and I wanna do something fun. Also I can play with the continuum. Yay me.
> 
> Lemme know if I fuck anything up. I don't live in NYC so I don't know much about the topography and so on, so it might get clunky? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I'll tag for warning in the summary and the notes of every chapter for your convenience. I take requests for warnings.
> 
> Story and chapter title by Mother Mother.
> 
> They own my soul at this point.

Kugrash crawled low to the ground, slow and quiet. If he breathed too loud, this asshole would see him, then it'd all go to shit. So he reached for the magic in his chest and cast _Pass Without Trace_, willing the shadows around him to aid him in remaining undetected.

_People_, after all, _didn't_ take kindly to a large rat taking their food. Even one _half_ as well-dressed as he was.

Still unnoticed, Kugrash slunk closer to the jackass's unattended lunchbox, keeping one eye on them as they idly chatted with the other person waiting on the subway. Slowly. _Slowly.** Slowly.**_

** _Now!_ **

Moving on all fours, Kugrash darted forward and grabbed the handle of the lunchbox in his teeth and scampered away, praying some random idiot wouldn't take a swing at him again. Last thing he needed was to splint his tail one more time.

"_What the fuck?!_" The person he stole from stood up, looking around for their missing lunchbox. Too late though, as Kugrash had managed to put enough space between them that whatever fucking shit kept people from seeing magic and the magic folk would obscure his retreat. "_Aww, man_! That was my favorite sandwich!"

_Well now someone **else** is gonna have it. Don't be fucking **stingy**_. Snickering to himself, Kugrash sped into a series of small storm drains and deeper into the sewer system, his prize keeping time against his back. After what felt like _far_ too long, Kugrash finally stopped running and stood up on his hind legs, dusting off his front paws. He spat the handle of the lunchbox into his paws and tried to get the taste of sweat-soaked nylon out of his mouth.

He'd eaten some bad food but _that_ shit was _foul_. **_Eugh_**.

Kugrash took a few more twists and turns through the sewers, navigating the hidden underground as only a rat could, until he climbed back up in a small series of alleyways just outside of Harlem. He sniffed the air, searching for someone in particular. The smell of wood smoke and pipe tobacco and piss filled his nose.

"_Bingo_."

Pulling on his magic again, Kugrash wildshaped into a patchy mutt, lunchbox slung over his back like a small pack. He continued to run towards the scent, stump of a tail wagging up a storm. It wasn't until he reached his destination that he stopped dead in his tracks.

Alan, the man he _had_ been bringing food to, was _currently_ enjoying a bowl of soup with a seated man in a warm jacket and hospital scrubs. He was smiling with all four of his teeth and talking with the man and, as Kugrash came up to them, he picked up on the back end of their conversation.

"I _can't_ thank you enough." Alan sounded close to tears, which set Kugrash's hackles up a bit. "_Really_, man."

"Alan, I don't know _how_ many times I have to say this: _it's my job_ to make sure _you_ and _folks like yourself_ are good and _taken care of_." This man Alan was talking to had a voice like honey on a warm biscuit. Sultry and inviting.

Kugrash _immediately_ hated him.

"And _I_ told you that when God sends folks like you and that dog to help, I _have_ to thank him _and_ you. _It's_ _only right!_" Alan protested. When he mentioned him, Kugrash picked up his pace, chest puffing with a bit of warm pride. Before the man that Kugrash disliked could continue, Kugrash got close enough for Alan to see him.

Kugrash gave a doggy grin and nodded at Alan, "**Delivery!**"

The man standing with Alan stiffened and his eyes narrowed. He glanced back at Alan and then Kugrash, shoulders hunched strangely. He seemed uncomfortable. Or confused. _Either way._

_Good_, Kugrash thought with no small sense of satisfaction, _fuck off._

It wasn't a kind thought but he wasn't a kind _person_. Also, _if he was being honest_, there was something _so_ likeable about this man that it set Kugrash's hair on edge.

"**Fresh sandwich and some chips. Fuck if I know what kind."** He knew Alan couldn't _hear_ him, not _really_, but his conversation partners were limited as it was and talking _at_ someone was well enough in this case.

_Besides_, from what _he_ knew, Alan heard the raspiest bark this side of a bronchitis-stricken old man. Seemed to make him happy to think his doggy companion was talking to him, even if he didn't know the half of it.

"Speak of the dog and he shall appear! How'sit _hanging_, pup?" Alan grinned again, all four teeth on display.

"**My feet fucking hurt but I think this'll last you tonight**."

Alan reached out and scratched under Kugrash's chin. His tail went wild and he gave the man he didn't like the stink eye. "_Man_, you _always_ know when I need something, _huh_? Like someone's looking out for me. You _and_ Kingston, here."

Kingston—which was the man's name _apparently_—continued to stare at Kugrash with confusion bordering on concern.

"**_Yeah_, well, unlike _this_ fucking putz, I'm actually busting my ass to make sure you can eat**." Kugrash wiggled the lunchbox off of his back and over his neck, depositing it at Alan's feet. "_**Bone appetite!**_"

Kingston grimaced, then stood up and popped his back. "Sorry to leave so quickly, but my sister needs someone to watch her kid while she studies for finals so I've gotta go. _Take care_, Alan. Stay warm." The gentle feeling of magic—the smell of fresh hotdogs and warm rain and heat on metal stairs caught Kugrash's nose—blanketed Alan in a iron-grey glow. Kugrash stared at Kingston and growled a bit, low enough that maybe Alan wouldn't hear him.

"_Be safe_ Kingston!" Alan waved back.

"_I will be_!"

After Kingston left, Kugrash made sure that _whatever_ fucking magic shit this dude cast wasn't gonna hurt Alan. He circled around him, sniffing hard. _Sure_, he _might_ be new to this whole magic thing, _to a degree_, but a dog's nose could pick up _all_ kinds of things.

_Unfortunately_ it didn't pick up much more than the lingering smell of Kingston's magic.

_Fortunately_, he _could_ use that to follow him. Giving a nod to Alan, who was still enjoying the soup that that Kingston fuck brought by, Kugrash bounded off, nose to the ground. He was gonna figure out _what the fuck_ this guy's steeze was.

_Apparently_, Kugrash realized, upon finding Kingston waiting for him in an alleyway, the guy's steeze was _magic as fuck_.

"You mind returning back to your natural state?" Kingston asked, voice still honey smooth, though _harder_, like a lozenge.

Kugrash just growled at him, eyeing the glow around his hands.

"How about this: **revert**." The iron-grey of Kingston's magic ripped from his hand and wrenched Kugrash out of his wildshape. On all fours, he snarled at Kingston again.

"How bout _this_: **_blow me!_**" He scrambled out of reach and on top of some garbage cans.

Kingston drew back, confused, and the magic on his hands faded. "_Wh—?_"

"You do this to _everyone_, or am I _special_?" Suicidal or bold, the difference was skill and while Kugrash wasn't confident in his magic, he _was_ a fucking _rat_. They had teeth and claws. And _maybe_ diseases. And they were fast. Or _he_ was, anyway.

"What were you _doing_ around that man?" His question was accusatory. Kugrash hissed.

"You mean _Alan_?" Kugrash shot back. "Fucking _dropping off food_. What the hell did it _look_ like?"

"_I—_" Kingston paused and then started over, "You were bringing him food?"

"_Yeah_! Have been for _weeks_. Dude barely can keep warm so I make sure he eats. _What of it?_" And then, as the rush of adrenaline wore off, he realized something. "Also _how the fuck_ are you even fucking talking to me?"

"I'm the Vox Populi," Kingston said, like that meant anything to Kugrash.

"And _I'm_ a _rat_."

"_You_...how much do you even _know_ about the Umbral Arcana?" His confused silence was enough. Kingston sighed through his teeth and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. _I'm sorry_ about antagonizing you, but you _have_ to understand where _I'm_ coming from. Some magic being shaped like a dog bringing food to a homeless man is either faerie or fiend and _neither_ is good. _Especially_ when you started talking."

"Well _excuse_ me for not realizing more humans could hear me. My running ratio of "_can_" to "_cannot_" is 1:12, so I _tend_ to be glib when I can." Kugrash wasn't gonna relax _just_ yet but he wasn't gonna tear out Kingston's throat. "And, _to be fair_, I _don't_ know where you're coming from."

Kingston seemed to pause, his body language changing from tense to more relaxed and open. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled loudly. Then he gave Kugrash a soft and almost believable sincere smile. "You wanna head back to my place? We can talk more there, out of the cold."

Kugrash eyed Kingston, ears pinned against his head. He still didn't like him, but if he wasn't gonna kill him on sight and if he was inviting him to his place...

He was _trying_ to be better. _Trying_ to open up. One person does not a social circle make and, old habits be damned but, he _did_ miss having drinking buddies.

"You don't mind me being a rat and all?" Kugrash stood on his hind legs and gestured to all of him, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm a nurse. I can assure you: _I've seen worse_."

"_Flattering_." Not _really_, but a decent joke, even at his expense. It diffused more of the tension between them.

"I can make us something to drink?" _Oho_. A _bribe_? Kingston seemed to think he was worth talking to apparently.

"You got scotch?" Kingston snorted.

"You drink _scotch_?"

"If you have it," Kugrash shrugged. "I'll drink _toilet wine_ if it's all you got."

Kingston laughed at that. Evened the odds. "I think I can find something. _C'mon_. My name is Kingston Brown."

"Call me Kugrash," he offered back.

Years later they would laugh about the absurdity of it all.


	2. Nothing Really Touches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Bruce Loses His Temper
> 
> (Title from Infinitesimal)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been an AGE!
> 
> I recently started rewatching TUC because I worked my way from Fantasy High S1 all the way up to it and this gave me the energy and motivation to work on this chapter. Hot damn. Go me.
> 
> I started working more on this during "We Need to Talk About Pete" and finished this at the start of "Panic at the Art Show". That's an upsetting amount of time, but also, was during a lot of good Kug moments so yeah.
> 
> Because this is a Bruce chapter, I'd like to warn at the top about a few things.  
One: language in Bruce chapters is gonna be worse. I'm trying very hard to not use some of the more terrible words I know because I want to, while painting Bruce as a flawed and realistic awful person, not make people uncomfortable.  
Two: a lot of Bruce chapters will have some unsavory words and thoughts about Gabriella. It is the nature of his state at this point, to hate her for what she's done to him. Especially because he doesn't think he deserved if at this point in his life.  
Three: the nature of Bruce's curse — before he was Kugrash — is ephemeral and my playplace now so I am gonna set some rules for it and stay within these unwritten (for y'all, for now) rules. That means that Bruce will slip in and out of knowing himself, being beholden to the nature of his shape and soul, and even his humanity. I will note when there is depersonalizing or dehumanizing or even dissociation in a chapter.
> 
> Warnings (coz it's a Bruce chapter, and those will usually have them): vague withdrawal symptoms, dehumanization, loss of self, memory loss, canon-typical violence (alluded to)

It's four am and he was on all fours, shaking as he sifted through trash. He needed _he needed **he needed—**_

"_Fucking_ bitch. _Fucking_—can't _believe_ she fucking up and—_I don't fucking deserve this_, no one does! Fucking—!"

His hands were shaking, dirty, smelly. His body shivered against the sharp cold of the crisp afternoon wind of New York and he hissed through teeth that cut into his lower lip. Blood matted the fur on his chin and he swore under his breath.

"**_Fuck!_**"

Behind him he could hear the sounds of drunkards and monsters and _other_ magic bastards wandering around. He didn't bother clocking them. He'd learned better. They mind their own and, unless they already were a fucking freak—_like **you** like you, you fucking **rat bastard,** you **fuck-up,** you **complete** shit_—they apparently couldn't see him.

Fucking _bullshit_ is what it was. Fucking _shithole bullshit_ fucking _nonsense_ he didn't fucking ask for. Fucking, who the _actual_ shithole fuck _wanted_ this shit?!

He _couldn't_—he couldn't find what he was—he _needed_—he _needed_ to find _something_ to take the edge off! He'd _had_ food—crammed a half-eaten sandwich in his mouth before he could stop himself, which, when he stopped screaming about how fucking _goddamn_ fuckall _dumb_ this fucking shit was, wasn't _bad_ and, _maybe_ it was his new fucking body or _maybe_ it's just that he let his standards go—and he'd _had_ water—rain water, but _hell_, he couldn't be picky could he—but _but **but—**_

His body _screamed_ for _something_ he wasn't gonna get in _any_ way that was _less_ disgusting than stealing backwash from an unconscious wino or licking discarded razor blades and needles.

"_Son of a **shitfuck**,_" he hissed. "Not like I can just fucking _ask_ someone for a hit. Can't fucking _ask_ for a light. _Fucking_...turning to _this_ fucking bullshit _fucking_—dumb _fucking_ **_bitch_**." His skin _itched_, underneath the fur. He had to clench his hands into the garbage to keep from clawing up his arms _again_. Bandages don't stick well to fur. _Especially_ if it's soaked in rainwater and garbage juice.

Behind him, he heard someone light up a smoke and his lungs _ached_. Without thinking, he hissed out, "_Ey_, fucking pass it here, kid." Then his brain caught up with his mouth and he froze.

The person smoking—some thin fucking teen in a ratty hoodie, eye bags bigger than they had _any_ sort of business being, but _fuck_, kid, _everyone's_ life fucking sucked, so they were getting a head start _weren't_ they?—stared down the alleyway, cigarette halfway to chapped lips. Dry, bloodied knuckles poked through ripped fingerless gloves—more of a _statement_ than natural wear and tear, the fucking _punk_—and chipped polish flaked away from nails chewed to the quick, curled around the cheap Bic lighter, thumb still on the strike wheel. It struck him _odd_, in that moment, that he could see _so sharply_ in the darkness. _Another_ fun fucking side-effect of his new _bullshit_.

It struck him _even more odd,_ at that exact moment, that he could almost _smell_ the kid's fear. _See_ the air around them _warp_ with a dark effect that _stank_ of shadows. Realize that shadows had a _smell_.

The kid's eyes swept the alleyway and, before he could stop himself, he called out to them again, "Yeah! _Fucking_—you can fucking _hear_ me, _right_? Fucking _pass me a goddamn light_. I cannot state enough _how much_ I would fucking _love_ that shit right now, and I've had the day _from hell_." Day, _week_, **_month_**, time was a fucking _nightmare_ on normal days, but _normal_ days he had a _schedule_ to keep. _Now_ it was days marked by the sunset, pangs of hunger, the itching and scratching of things under his skin that he hates _hated **hate—**_

"You, _uh_...you _what_?" Their voice cracked, confused, _unsure_. He could see their eyes narrow, pupils dilate as they tried to catch any and all light in the alleyway.

_They can't see me,_ was his first thought.

_They **can** hear me_, was his second.

"Holy _hot fucking shit_ you _actually_ can _hear_ me." He doesn't even _bother_ to filter his shit. It's been—he _can't remember_ the _last_ time someone who wasn't a _fucking_—fucking _literal_ pile of shit or a fucking _walking trash can_ or a _goddamn troll_ or _some_ magical bullfuckery—and he can't stop himself from talking without thinking. "_Fuck_ kid, _yeah_ _fucking_ goddamn fucking..._shit_. Pass me a light. _Shit_! I would _literally_ tear my goddamn dick off for a hit right now, but I'll take a smoke. **_C'mon!_**"

"_What_...what the fuck _are_ you?" The kid squints again, their face scrunching up, a flash of panic setting their teeth, that black shadow smell wrapping around them tighter, like cellophane or some _other_ shit, rippling and ready to rip.

"_Fucking_..._what the fuck_ does it _matter_? You gonna _share_ or you gonna fucking _stand there_ and be a _slackjawed fuckwit_? Goddamit, _give me a fucking light!_" He'd never been patient. That wasn't his biz. He was more of a talk fast and smooth kinda guy. Had a temper—Emmy _always said_ he was too hot sometimes, but she liked that _most_ days—but there was something _there_, buried underneath his skin, that was _closer_ to the surface than _before_.

_Probably_ had something to fucking do with whatever the _fuck_ Gabriella fucking _goddamn_ Sinclair fucking did to him.

_Whatever_ it was, he slipped from angry to _outright feral_ with little prompting, mouth curled into a harsh snarl, dropped on all fours. His hands, angled into claws, tore at the ground, throwing trash around as he darted at this thin fucking kid. His teeth bore, his body low, his tail whipping about, he lost himself to whatever this natural—_unnatural fucking **bullshit** stupid fucking **witchfuck** magic_—instinct was.

He needed _he needed_ he needed _he needed_ he fucking _wanted_ to fucking _needed_ to fucking _rip_ and _tear_ and _take_ and _take_ and _take_ _and **take and take and—**_

He drew back into himself, vision blurred, as a sharp rush of pain tore across his skull. A slick wetness streaked its way down his left cheek, matting his fur and dragging down his whiskers. Scampering backward until he regained his composure—the tearing, _burning_ hate of want _want **want**_ run _run_ take **_fucking take_ **_give it_ receding—and returned to a more upright stature because he's a _goddamn person_, not an _animal_ for _fuck's_ sake, he touched his head and drew away a tacky strand of blood. He could barely see out of his left eye and his chest _hurt_, breathing difficult as well.

On the ground in front of him was a cracked Bic lighter, a pack of smokes spotted with blood, and a broken shard of glass. Blood splattered footprints marked the kid's hasty retreat, a glowing ember in the heel of one of their tracks slowly flickering out.

He—_h__e_—did he _attack_ them?

The blood on his face, the flesh under his fingernails, the copper in his mouth, the pain that tears from his temple, across his eye, and to his jawline; _all_ of this information was enough to set him shaking again. _Different_ fucking shit, _same_ fucking day, same _goddamn_ **_shitfucking_** body.

"_What the fuck?_ What did _I_—what the _fuck_ was _that_? _What the fuck did I do?_ **_What—?!_**" His voice was low and raspy, chesty, caught. His hands _shook_. His _body_ shook, tremors wracking through all _two feet_ of what he had left. "What the _fuck_ did I—_**what** fucking **happened?!**"_

_You goddamn **fucking** animal fucking **let yourself go.** Fucking **dumbfuck** shithole of a **goddamn** monster. Rat. **Fucking rat.**_

"_Gabriella_ **_goddamn_** _Sinclair_," he snarled, and then—catching his tone, his stance, the way his body curved, how _inhuman_ he had to be, the pain in his narrowing eyes—_stopped_, clutched his face, and hissed in anger. "_Goddamn_ fucking _goddamn shitfuck_ hell-ass rat bastard. **_Fuck!_**" Slowly, he stumbled out of the alleyway, snagged the kid's dropped lighter and smokes, and stumbled back into darkness, keeping the tokens clutched to his chest. Didn't fucking have pockets right now, couldn't fucking stash them anywhere, but it was a human thing to have, and _he was human._

_He was a **fucking** human._

His name was Bruce Kugrich and he was a _goddamn **human being.**_

And he was gonna have a _goddamn_ smoke, treat the cut on his fucking face, get some _motherfucking_ rest, and deal with this in the morning—or _whatever_ passed for morning in the _goddamn nightmare_ his life had become. _Then?_ Then Gabriella _goddamn_ Sinclair.

He didn't fucking _deserve_ this. _No one did._

But _especially_ not

_fucking_

_**him**_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's anything in this chapter or a even something that might come up later, that may trigger or upset you, please let me know so I can add warnings up front and also tag for them. I want to make this as comfortable for you, my readers, as I can, and this would make this easier for me in the future.
> 
> We make the world better for each other, even in the little ways.


End file.
